


Threat Grin

by htebazytook



Category: Dexter/Heroes crossover
Genre: Bloodplay, Crossover, Dubious Consent, First Person, First Time, Humor, M/M, Rough Sex, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic was an excuse for first person narrative and a sexy serial killer fiesta of fucked up doom.  Cross-posted all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threat Grin

**Title:** Threat Grin   
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairings :** Sylar/Dexter  
 **Fandoms:** Dexter/Heroes crossover   
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--   
 **Warnings:** Ummm these are serial killers? A bit of blood with a generous helping of fucked-up-ed-ness.  
 **Spoilers:** For Heroes, through season 3. For Dexter, through season 2.  
 **Summary:** This fic was an excuse for first person narrative and a sexy serial killer fiesta of fucked up doom. Cross-posted all over the place.

 

 

I don't like it when they send visitors back to my lab like I'm a people person. Aside from other forensics specialists, only the morbidly curious ever make it back to my place of work. Always out of boredom. Always mistaking art for blood splatter and boring me with their attempts at light-hearted banter in the face of death. This man isn't an excitable tourist, however. No, his curiosity is less obvious. Quietly bubbling, written in his eyes and his studied nonchalance. Everything about him is studied. I should know.

"Dexter Morgan," I say, reach out to shake his hand.

The man takes it and shakes, smiles toothy and broad. Other primates bare their teeth when they're feeling threatened, just to let their rivals know they're not to be messed with. "Call me Sylar."

I pull a face, aiming for amusement. "Weird name. Not from around here, huh?"

"Not exactly," Sylar says, letting the laughter color his voice.

I laugh back, just a simple exchange like with the handshake. "Ah. So where's home for you?"

Sylar laughs, like hyenas or polite socialites are wont to. Why does this guy remind me of an animal? He's hairy enough, that's for sure—inelegantly unbuttoned shirt putting his chest hair on display, long sleeves pushed up. He's awfully pale, too, and that splash of sunburn over his cheeks . . . he's unused to the Florida heat at the end of the day, the way it sneaks up on you. I wonder where he's really from and what made him pack for his little escape to the tropics so unthinkingly. "Oh, not any one place, really," he evades.

I don’t trust him. "So. What can I do for you?"

" _Well_ , Mr Morgan," Sylar begins, traces a random pattern on a random table. "You might say I'm looking for answers. I've recently been down on my luck, so to speak." And he looks to me as though that were a real answer. I really wish people wouldn't speak in code all the time.

"Well," I sigh, "unless you're looking for a blood analysis, then I'm not sure I'm your guy." He'll get the hint now, and I can go back to my extracurricular research hidden behind an innocuous database on my computer screen.

"Anyone ever tell you you've got this sad puppy look going on?"

"Uh . . . no. Definitely not." If I were Deb I'd probably add a judicious stream of expletives onto that and he'd really get the hint.

Sylar just tilts his head and studies me, talks like I'm not even there: "I wonder what you can do."

This guy blinks even less than I do. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Most people would probably be getting a shiver up their spine about now, but I'm not most people. He notices, too. And it gives him pause. It must be frustrating to have your carefully constructed menace fail to take effect. It's probably never failed him before. "I work in forensics," I tell him, not knowing what else I'm supposed to say. He knows what I do.

"Ah, yes. 'Forensics'."

I gesture around me to test tubes and microscopes and stacks of files. "The application of scientific knowledge to legal problems."

He laughs, just like everyone else does whenever I state the obvious. But it feels different coming from him. What's this guy's deal? "Let me see if I can explain this," Sylar says, folds his arms and taps a finger against his lips. "I used to be in the same line of work as you, Mr Morgan. But that was before the accident. I'm trying to remember what it's like to do what I do without . . . well, without all the tools I used to have at my disposal."

"Well, I'm sorry you came all this way, Mr Sylar, but—"

"Just Sylar." His voice is so deep, so defined by undertones of peril that it feels a bit like a joke.

"Okay, Just Sylar. But I really can't lend you any of my equipment here. It belongs to the department and not me. Sorry I can't help you out, but my hands are tied. And I'm kind of under a heavy workload at the moment . . ."

Sylar nods. "But you have equipment elsewhere." It's not a question. What does he really know about me? Of all the forensics labs, in all the towns, in all the world, and he walks into mine . . .

I laugh. "I—look, I've really gotta get back to work, okay?" I turn in my chair—

"Working on the Wynn case, huh? That suspected rapist/murderer who got off on a technicality. He should have faced justice but he didn't. Too bad that fucked up vigilante's out of business—what did they call him? The Bay Harbor Butcher, right?"

He's waiting with bated breath for my response and I can't imagine why. How the hell does he know about my plans for Wynn? "What are you, Internal Affairs?" I say it jokingly. This guy clearly isn't a cop of any kind, and I really doubt he's a forensics specialist. He's much too wide-eyed for that—like a kid in a candy store if not for that unsettling aura about him . . .

I don't like how much he's reminding me of myself. Not one bit.

"You know, Mr Morgan, it's hard to know what you're thinking." Sylar's frustrated now. As though he normally knows exactly what everyone is thinking. His dead, unmoving stare makes me feel like a deer in the headlights. I want to tell him there's nothing to figure out about me.

"Sorry," I say instead.

Sylar nods, shrugs. "Well it was nice meeting you anyway." And he gets close then, puts a hand on my forearm and whispers, "I'm a big fan of your work," before vanishing as quickly as he'd come. A blur of dark clothes and pale skin rushing away through Venetian blinds.

Deb jaunts over to me as soon as Sylar's left. "What the _fuck?_ That guy was fuckin' creepy, huh?" She laughs. "Bet he's a fuckin' serial killer or some shit, interrogating you to figure out how to avoid getting caught. God. Hey, what did he _want_ anyway?" I usually don't understand how Deb can get so genuinely excited about everything, but in this case I'm suffering from an echo of her curiosity.

"I don't know what he wanted." And it's going to eat away at me the rest of the day. How annoying. I need to focus if I'm going to juggle everything on my plate right now successfully—Wynn's not going to cut _himself_ up into a smorgasbord of flesh and bone.

*

It's two in the morning and I'm scrubbing the last of the blood off my hands, trophy slide already tucked safely away with its strange new bedfellows, when someone knocks on the door. Deb? Rita? I'm not in the mood to deal with either of them right now. Can't a guy just enjoy some hard-earned down time?

This particular kill had taken weeks of preparation and as much as I would prefer to bask in the afterglow, that inconsiderate knocking just won't let up. A quick peek through the curtains surprises me.

I open the door. "Some would call this stalking," I say.

Sylar shrugs, slips past me and into the darkness of my apartment. "So what? Nice place you have here," he says, as though this is all perfectly normal behavior.

"How did you find me?" What do you _want?_

"A name and a single piece of information—anything really—about a person is all one needs to track them down. But you know all about that, don't you, Dexter Morgan?" He smiles that feral animal smile again.

"Mind telling me what you're doing in the living room of a perfect stranger in the middle of the night?"

"Funny you should say that, Dex, because—can I call you Dex?"

"No."

" _Because_ , Dex, I wanted to learn more about how you operate, and let's face it, a police department isn't the ideal place for you to do what you do best. Also, I'm a bit of a CSI: Miami junkie and wanted to see just how orange the place really was. Kind of a disappointment in that regard. You're not, though." Quick little smirk across his face before he moves in with uncanny speed, has me against the wall and my hands immobilized behind my back before I can react.

He speaks into my ear: "I want you to show me how you do it without the ability to . . . Let me rephrase that: I want to understand your abilities, as mundane as they are."

"Assaulting a member of law enforcement isn't the best move." None of my tools in sight, nothing I can convert into a makeshift weapon within reach . . .

Sylar laughs. "You're hilarious." His free hand trails up my back and into my hair until he can rub his thumb back and forth across my forehead with a sigh. "What a _hassle_ this is. I don't know how you do it, Dexter."

"Look, there's money in my wallet. And if you kill me you'll be one easy fucker to catch." Harry would be so proud of how credibly shaken I sound. I've certainly encountered enough people to draw inspiration from.

"Oh, come on, Dexter. There's no need to play dumb with me. I know how tiring it can be." Another impatient sigh. "All I want is a little guidance from a colleague I greatly respect. Someone like you, with no inherent skills, who has achieved so much. The Batman to my Superman. Honestly, Dexter, you should be flattered!"

"Tell me, 'Superman', how do you find the time to stalk people _and_ feed your comic book habit?"

"Books on tape," he says. "You should try it—it's an excellent way to keep from getting over-excited en route to a kill. And educational, too."

I go still, stop searching for a way to escape. "A kill," I echo.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks next: "Why _do_ you kill people, Dexter? Just for shits and giggles?"

"I live by a code," I say, still grasping at neutrality. I'm not sure exactly what he means; definitely not sure what he wants.

"Yeah," Sylar snorts. "Me too. It's called Kill Everyone In My Way."

"At least you have a goal." And what might that be, I wonder. World domination? Seems fitting. "Your killing isn't random." The vice-like grip on my wrists falls away and I turn to look at him. Sylar's no longer concerned with keeping his crazed curiosity a secret, stares at me with open appraisal. He doesn't seem concerned in the slightest that I'll attack him, either, even though he clearly thinks I could. That throws me a little.

"Eh. I wouldn't say it isn't _random_ , only that it always serves a purpose of some kind. And, well," he smiles, a self-indulgent simian grimace, "if that purpose is on occasion that of my own personal entertainment, then what's wrong with that? _People_ pursue their interests, their 'hobbies', avidly. And I'm only human . . . right?" Sylar is really quite taken with himself.

"But what you want is power." Isn't it? That's a popular one, for sure. "Not to kill."

"Have to kill to get the power," Sylar shrugs. "It's merely incidental. But it still gives me a rush, and it's always nice to feel something, you know?"

I do know. I really do. And I wish I felt enough to have aspirations and long-term goals like he apparently does, a purpose instead of a struggle. On the other hand that must consume him as much as my need to kill does. Satisfaction is ever out of reach.

Sylar laughs. "This is new for me. Usually I only tell this stuff to people I'm about to kill."

Yeah. My confidants always seem to slip away, too. Have I revealed anything incriminating to him yet? He's so downright _friendly_ , in his own fucked up way, that I just might reveal too much. But if he _is_ Internal Affairs I can always kill him later, so what's the harm?

"What do you want from me?" I finally ask.

"I want to figure out how that works," he says, gesturing at me in general. "How you satisfy your need without getting caught. I mean, you live such a normal life! Staying in one place, hiding in plain sight. It must be easier for you to form connections to other people."

I could ask how he found out so much about me but the truth is I know just how easy it is. It doesn't bother me—it might even impress me a little. I've never been any good at resisting the people who see me for what I am. It's the closest to a human bond I can get, and my very own Achilles' heel.

"I have a girlfriend," I say, since it's true.

"Interesting. Do you love her?"

"Um. I'm used to her." Close enough. "What about you?" I really want to know. Everyone has their own weird issues when it comes to sex, and Sylar's must be . . . interesting.

"I did feel a connection to someone once. It was short-lived, but still . . . electric. I had to kill her though."

"Too bad."

"Yeah, I guess so. I wish I'd stayed interested in her in a non, well, _professional_ way. But her . . . but what she taught me certainly came in handy on _many_ an occasion, so it wasn't a total loss."

"Do you enjoy sex?" I don’t think Sylar will mind my bluntness. In fact he seems genuinely amused by it. Genuine amusement is what wraps all of his offness up in a nice tidy ball of personality. He enjoys things—he must enjoy sex on some level.

Sylar shrugs. "Not usually. It's not as thrilling as death, but it's similar enough to hold my interest. Sometimes."

Sylar is perpetually curious—I have a hunch about this. It's probably a control thing, the way he needs to know how things work. And he must really want to know how I work, otherwise he wouldn't still be here. It's there in his eyes, that need for answers. Amusement and curiosity. At least it's something. What do _I_ have?

"I've never really understood sex," I tell him.

He just looks at me for a long minute. "Let me try something, here," he says, like he's about to tighten a screw and see if that gets me ticking again. Instead he leans in until his lips touch mine, presses, worries my upper lip with his teeth lightly, presses again, retracts his mouth.

"What did you feel?" Sylar asks, not stepping away.

I feel like an experiment. I don't mind, though. Not if it means helping out a fellow traveler in need. And there's still a simmering excitement in the pit of my stomach from tonight's kill. "I don't know. Do it again."

Sylar eyes me, assessing the situation. "Lying down this time. Overwhelm you with stimuli more quickly," he says to himself before grabbing my arm and leading me insistently over to the couch. He makes me sit, molds my limbs around until I'm lying down before settling on top of me and kissing me again without further ado.

I wonder why he's so aroused—that need to understand must really do it for him. I'm just glad to be at the dubious mercy of a like-minded individual. It's a 'guys know what guys want' kind of mentality, except Sylar's gender has nothing to do with it. His unwavering interest and his tongue in my mouth and his hands in my hair do.

I touch his face because I've gone on autopilot a little, the usual Rita-tailored jig of tenderness, and it hits me that I'm tracing his cheek just so . . .

"What?" Sylar asks, eyes huge and close and riveted.

"I . . ." Am I really telling him this? "I collect blood from my victims, and I always make the incision"—I trace over the spot again—" _here_." There's a lust to do it to Sylar building in me, so inexorable that I'm getting careless and shooting my mouth off. It's not that I want to kill him—that would mean the loss of a newfound colleague, and one who doesn’t seem interested in killing me right away.

Sylar smiles slowly. "You wanna do it, don’t you?" And here I thought I was hard to read. He pulls a knife out of nowhere, unsheathing easily, opens my palm and closes my fingers around the handle and brings it up to let the cool blade scratch along his stubble. He gives me this challenging look—it's a game of one-upmanship now—so I slice into his flesh easily and his eyes light up and he leans down to kiss me again, now with the blood smearing over his eager lips and dripping hot and fresh into my hair. I hear the knife clatter away, feel it nick my hand in farewell.

My heart rate speeds up and my focus darts between the taste of Sylar's mouth and the taste of his blood. I must be a vampire—that's a sleeker, more subdued kind of monster, though, and it doesn't quite fit me.

"What else do you want, Dexter?" he asks into my ear, licks a little pool of blood out of the shell.

"I don't know." More of whatever this is, the thrill of the hunt meshing with flesh and bone in an entirely different way. All I can do is let his tongue into my mouth and bloody my fingertips so I can paint his pale skin.

Sylar groans, spurred into a flurry of motion. He sits back to get rid of my shirt, clinging to me still with blood-toil-sweat and casting it away, onto the floor and out of sight. It's so dark in here, only a few strips of reluctant moonlight to see him by.

He looks down at me, face painted with anticipation and wayward blood, and runs his hands up my exposed chest. Leans down to lap up the streaks of red left in his wake and groan against my skin.

"Fuck you have a nice body," he says after a detour to my mouth. His eyes wild and black this close. "And I say that from a non-homicidal standpoint. Mostly. Do you work out?"

"I get a lot of exercise."

Sylar laughs, dark and unpleasant. "I'm sure you do. You really don't have to worry, though—I don't want to kill you. And in any case, I like to play with my food before I eat it. It's a bad habit and its gotten me into trouble before, but it's hard to kick."

"I know what you mean." And when have I ever meant that? "Take this off," I suggest, reaching—

Sylar tsks, seizes my wrists and pins me when I try to tug his shirt off. "My game, my rules." And he bites/licks/trails his mouth along my neck and down my torso, pausing to tease my nipples with his tongue in a manner I find unexpectedly erotic. It has to do with his eyes latched onto my face, his hands holding me down for him.

I've never been so out of control in a sexual situation. I like control usually, but when it comes to this I'm always grateful to have some guidance. Too much is expected of me because I'm male, and why women assume copulation is the only thing on our minds is beyond me. How very sexist of them . . .

Sylar palms the front of my pants and I arc into it out of reflex, because I can see the blood still drizzling over his cheek, because he's already hard against my leg.

"This is," I begin, surprised to hear the breathlessness in my own voice. "Different than it usually is. For me." Not even with Lila had it felt quite like this. Sure, she'd _seen_ me for who I was, but she hadn't fully understood it, not really. Sylar definitely does, and I only met him hours ago.

"You just haven't been doing it right." Sylar gets my pants open, off, away. "Oh, hey, why don't you let me help you with that?" he says, wrapping a hand around my cock before I can answer.

"Oh," I say. Then, " _Oh_ . . ." when he starts a steady rhythm, up and down, slippery bloody and calloused pale digits rubbing over me and I can't look away from it, not until he captures my mouth for a deep, unchecked kiss and I kiss him back without thinking about it at all.

Sylar gets out of his own clothes eventually, off and away and escaping my notice in the face of the waves of pleasure coursing through my veins, making me breathless with the very knowledge of what's happening rather than any mere physical stimuli.

My hand finds Sylar's cock of its own accord, inexplicably hungry for the feel of him, for the proof of his arousal, and he lets out a string of curses when I grip him firmly and stroke him suddenly hard and fast.

"Let me fuck you," Sylar says, meandering monotone gone ragged and impossibly lower in pitch. I shiver for reasons unknown and won't answer him—I want him to take from me, as though there's something I possess that isn't murderous. He shakes me. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't care."

He finds me entertaining. "You're just so _weird_."

I shrug. "Speak for yourself." And my hands rove ceaselessly over his skin, addicted to the feel of it while I'm in this particular state of mind.

Sylar moves almost unnaturally quickly, handles me like an inanimate object and repositions me so I'm bent over the arm of the couch, head lolling, nothing visible but the floor and nothing to feel until Sylar's heat returns behind me, superheated skin against mine and I don't think I've ever truly enjoyed contact with any person whose body wasn't going cold with death.

" _Usually_ ," Sylar begins, forcing one slicked finger into me as he speaks, "Fucking people is just a means to an end. And _usually_ . . . " He adds another finger all too quickly, but I'm grateful for the pain. Pain I can understand—guttural, simple, physical. "I'm high on the imminent fruition of whatever diabolical scheme I have going and not so much interested in the soon to be disposed of piece of meat I'm fucking. But you, _you_ are something special."

"You sure do get off on talking about yourself, Sylar," I point out, canting my hips back for more stimulation. Foreplay bores the hell out of me.

"How hard would I need to fuck you to keep you from stating the obvious?" Sylar asks, adds a third finger and fucks into me, bites the back of my neck.

"Pretty fucking hard. Why don't you shut up and get on with— _ah_." His cock is implausibly hot inside me, stretches so relentlessly, will not be denied even though my nerve endings are screaming. Once he's fully inside he stops, seems to wait for me to adjust, hands pulling messily at my hair and holding my hips in place, _hard_.

"Are you ready for me, Dexter?"

My breathing's so out of control I have trouble answering in words. "In a minute—"

"Oh good," he says directly into my ear before he starts thrusting into me, his groans swirling around my head like an intoxicating cloud of sound while his cock fucks steadily deeper, teasing with ever elusive pleasure and making me dizzy and ravenous for the pain.

"See, it's just like death, isn't it?" Sylar mutters, the hand in my hair pulling my head back so he can watch my eyes roll with the force of his thrusts. " _Fuck._ Tell me how you kill them."

I laugh and it sounds crazed and maniacal even to me. "Any fucking way I want once I have them. That's the best part. When I don't have to— _uhhh_ yes—don't have to think about their guiltiness anymore. When I can just fucking cut into them and feel that, _ohgod_ , you can just feel all that fear and desperation bleeding out of them— _ah_ , Sylar, fuck, faster . . ."

"You want that, don't you?" Sylar growls, slows his thrusts just to be contrary, to get my attention. "You want that freedom. Whether they deserve it or not. And it's so fucking good to just _feel_ the sin of it recharge your entire being. You want to _choose_ the people who satisfy you, you want to kill without _needing_ to think it through or make elaborate plans. Without justification." Sylar groans and bites at my shoulder, pushes me deeper into the cushions to keep me still.

"Yes. Want it. Want it _so fucking much_. I want, I want—"

"Want me to fuck you harder?"

" _Yes_."

The brutal pace Sylar sets and the need to come overwhelm me like my other, darker needs always try to and I want release from so many insatiable things . . .

"Ah _fuck_ , make me come, fuck just make me come _please_ ," I babble, gripping at the couch for purchase when Sylar's thrusts propel me forward. Want release, want release _now_ , fucking need need need need—

Sylar goes deep and goes still, perfect angle and perfectly overwhelming pressure that threatens to explode from over-stimulation as he just presses harder and harder and thrusts one last _deep_ thrust to the hilt and comes. His hand falls away from my hip to take my straining cock in hand, still gorgeously bloodstained, and he jerks roughly until I come with nonsense syllables leaking from my lips.

Sylar pulls away and collapses back on the couch cushions with a delirious little laugh. I follow suit.

"So that." I have to stop and catch my breath. "That's what it's supposed to be like. I. I think I might kind of get what the fuss is all about now."

"Not sure that's exactly what it's _supposed_ to be like," Sylar says, panting at the ceiling, blissed-out.

"But that’s what it's supposed to _feel_ like. Right?" I look over at him, giddy with discovery. _Giddy_.

Sylar just blinks. "You're asking _me?_ "

*

Sylar intercepts me the following day on the way to my car after work, a shock of black in the buttery, sun-washed landscape. He leans against my car all in black, favors me with a black look in his blacked-out eyes.

"Thanks again for stitching me up," he says as I approach, fingering his marred cheek. "Do you usually dress their wounds after you cut 'em up?"

I laugh without thinking about it. "I went to med school. Well, sort of," I say, not exactly an answer, but he likes mystery.

Sylar smiles slowly. "It was fun, Dexter," he says after a minute. "You should come by and see me sometime."

I shrug and move past him to unlock the door. "I don't exactly know where I would come _by_."

He sneaks up behind me, arm quick and close around my waist to pull me back into him for a brief, enthralling moment. "Hunting's what you do best, isn't it?" he says before releasing me.

And when I turn around Sylar's already gone. I can't suppress a smile—brand new playmates are just the best.

*


End file.
